


Crash

by gutsandglitter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, car crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:17:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsandglitter/pseuds/gutsandglitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A homicide investigation and a car accident coincide into one serendipitous meeting between Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash

The sun felt almost unbearably hot against Greg’s skin. He shifted uncomfortably as he surveyed the scene before him.   
Under any other circumstances Greg would be delighted to be working out in the country, especially on a day like today. It was sunny and warm and the countryside was a picturesque example of what May should look like. If it weren’t for the decaying corpse in the middle of the field before him, it would have been a great day.  
As it stood, there was a corpse in the field and it was making Greg regret his prayers for sunshine earlier in the year. The field stank of warm rotting flesh, making his whole team queasy. Only Sherlock seemed unaffected by the odor, he was gleefully on his hands and knees examining the corpse and shooting the occasional insult at Anderson. John Watson was standing several meters back, having already vomited in the bushes twice.   
From the thoroughly delighted look on Sherlock’s face Greg could tell they would not be solving this any time soon. He sighed and peeled off his jacket, knowing full well he had a coffee stain on his shirt but not particularly giving a damn at this point.   
“Sally, I’m going to put my jacket in the car. Think you can handle this?” he called.  
Sally nodded, quite obviously breathing through her mouth.   
Greg turned back and began the short trek to the gravel area they had parked the squad cars. Once he had gotten out of the range of the stench and the noise he was able to breathe a little easier, both literally and metaphorically. He sucked in a deep breath of country air as he reached his car, turning his face into the warmth of the sun. 

“If you hit another pothole at this speed, so help me God I will have your entire family exiled,” Mycroft yelled bitterly at the driver. He had been trying to give the new hire some slack, he couldn’t be a day over nineteen and seemed utterly terrified, but this was getting ridiculous. He was driving far too fast along the narrow country road and Mycroft could hear the gravel kicking up and nicking the paint of the towncar.   
He pulled out his Blackberry and began typing a message to Anthea instructing her to find a new driver as soon as possible. He winced and glanced up as they hit another pothole. He glared at the driver and opened his mouth to say something snide just as a small squirrel ran out in front of the car.  
The young driver let out a squeak and jerked the wheel sharply to the left.   
Whatever cruel insult Mycroft had intended to admonish the driver with was lost in a garbled heap of syllables as the car went airborne. Mycroft’s Blackberry flew out of his hands as the car came crashing to the ground upside-down and began to flip itself end over end down the grassy hill. 

Greg’s eyes flew open as he heard the screech of tires, his eyes barely had time to register the sight of the car on the main road before it disappeared over the side of the hill with a sickening crunch of metal. He dropped his jacket and sprinted towards the road. He skidded himself to a stop at the edge where the car had gone off just in time to see it perform its final flip and land upside-down in the meadow. Greg eyed the slope; it was steep but he had run cross-country at Uni and been quite good so he decided to chance it. He stumbled a few times but managed to make it down to the wreck much quicker than he would have expected. The driver was staring to pull himself out the window, he was just a kid who was white as a sheet.   
Greg flashed his badge as he jogged the remaining steps to the car. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. You alright?”  
The kid nodded, although his arm seemed to be hanging from his body at an awkward angle. “But…,” he gestured to the back of the car.  
Greg understood. “I’ve got it. You get back though,” he said, eyeing the front of the car which appeared to be smoking.   
Greg got down on his knees and peered into the backseat, or what had been the backseat. There was definitely a figure back there, but it didn’t appear to be moving. The head seemed to be hovering about two inches above the crushed roof of the car, meaning they were wearing their seatbelt.   
“Can you hear me?” Greg called to the figure. There was a small pause before the figure turned slightly towards him and nodded. Fresh blood streamed down the face of the man, and Greg’s stomach turned over. He could definitely smell petrol leaking somewhere, meaning he had to get the man out before it erupted into flames.   
Greg crawled so that his head and shoulders were through the side window. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew his pocketknife; he had ever been so grateful for having a woodsman for a father who always stressed the importance of being prepared for anything.   
“Sir, I’m going to cut your seatbelt so I can get you out of here. I’m going to need you to brace yourself so you don’t fall on your head.” Greg spoke clearly but quickly, time was of the essence.  
By the time the man nodded and reached his hands up Greg already had his hand wrapped around the belt and was sawing away at it. After a few moments the fabric gave way and the man grunted as his weight shifted to his hands. His wrists buckled as he let his body slide down so he was resting on his shoulders.  
“Okay, I’m gonna get you out of here,” Greg said. “Give me your hand.”  
The man looked at him, pure terror in his eyes.   
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Greg said. “You have my word.”  
The man paused before placing his shaky hand in Greg’s firm one. Greg grasped the pale, elegant hand and reached for the other. He wrapped his fingers around it and felt the bones shift under his hands. The man let out a whimper of pain.   
“Oh shit, sorry about that,” Greg apologized, reaching up and grasping his forearm instead. “Okay, on the count of three I’m going to pull you out. One, two, three!” The man wrenched his face in pain as Greg slid his frame out the window. Once his top half was out Greg wrapped his arms around the man’s torso and pulled. The man let out another whimper, and Greg couldn’t blame him. His right leg was bent at an impossible angle, he could tell by the way the fabric of his trousers fell that the bone had broken the skin.   
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he cooed, lifting the man into a fireman’s hold and carrying him several meters away before setting him down in the grass. The man took deep gasps of air as he sat back. The leaking petrol found the spark it was looking for and become ignited, sending the remains of the towncar into a billowing inferno.  
Greg sank down to the grass beside the man, panting for breath. As the adrenaline began to wear off, he became painfully aware that he was no longer a young man and his joints would be aching for ages.  
“Oi, what the hell?!” he heard a voice yell.   
He looked over his shoulder and could just make out Sally’s profile up on the main road.  
“Call the fire department and get me an ambulance for this guy,” he hollered up to her.   
“Ah, that will not be necessary,” the man said.  
“If I might use your mobile, I could contact my people to come and take care of this,” the man said.  
Greg furrowed his brow, but he found himself digging into his pocket for his mobile. He handed it to the man, then looked up at Sally. “On second thought, I think we’re okay down here,” he said. “Go back to the scene.”  
He looked back at the injured man, who was typing out a text message with his good hand. For the first time, Greg was able to get a good look at the man. He was tall, taller than Greg, and very lean. His suit was in tatters and stained with blood but Greg could still tell it had been outrageously expensive. He was very handsome, Greg decided, even though part of his pale face was masked with blood from a cut above his eyebrow.  
“So besides the hand and the arm, where does it hurt?” Greg asked, concerned.  
The man cleared his throat and pressed send. “Besides the shattered tarsals and fractured tibia, I believe I have a minor concussion and a dislocated shoulder.” He chuckled darkly. “I’ve had worse.” He handed the phone back to Greg.  
Greg raised an eyebrow. “So you have your own “people”, a personal driver, and no stranger to personal injury. What are you, some sort of king?”  
The man began to laugh again but the sound was cut short as a pang of pain shot through his body. “Unfortunately, I only occupy a minor position in the British government.”  
Greg snorted. “Sure, and I’m the next James Bond.”  
The man quirked an eyebrow. “I’m glad they decided to pick someone attractive this time. Daniel Craig looked so bland on screen. Charming man in person, though.”  
Greg’s cheeks flushed for a moment, then he became confused. “Wait, you’ve met Daniel Craig?”  
He didn’t get his answer, it was cut off by a loud baritone voice up on the main road.  
“Mycroft, if the crash didn’t kill you I swear I will. You always have to ruin my fun!” Sherlock whined. Greg waved him off with a rude hang gesture. Sherlock sulked off out of sight, presumably back to the crime scene.  
The man’s eyes shut tight again and he let out a heavy sigh. “Inspector Lestrade, please go ahead and put me out of my misery now. I know the Met doesn’t carry guns but there must be a rock or a sharp stick around here somewhere.”  
Greg laughed out loud. “Ah, so you know Sherlock too. Wait, how’d you know my name?”  
He didn’t get an answer to this question either. The man merely smirked and reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a pocket square, which he used to clean the blood off his face.   
It was such an elegant move, just a few delicate flicks of his wrist and his face was clean. He smirked again when he saw the small measure of awe on Greg’s face.   
“Sir!” a voice called from the road.  
Greg glanced up and saw a beautiful woman quickly walking down the steep hill with ease, in heels no less. There were three black cars on the ridge identical to the one that was now a smoldering pile of ash. One of them carefully began rolling down the hill towards the pair.   
Greg turned back to the man, bewildered. “Your people?”  
The man smiled and nodded slightly.   
“Sorry for the delay sir,” the woman said as she got within earshot. Her tone was decidedly bored, like this happened every day, and Greg once again wondered what the hell this man did for a living.   
The car came up to a stop beside them and a tall muscular man in a suit and sunglasses stepped out.  
“Well Inspector Lestrade, it looks like my ride is here,” the man said lightly. His face became very sincere for a moment. “I…I can’t thank you enough for pulling me out of that car. I cannot imagine what might have happened had you not been here.” He quirked his lips into a smile. “My assistant Anthea has my checkbook, she will see that you are duly rewarded for your heroics.”  
Greg’s eyebrows shot up. “Hang on. I don’t want any sort of reward, I did what anybody would have done.”  
“Hardly. You are too kind on the nature of the general public. And surely there must be something you would want in exchange. I may not be a king, but I do have resources.”  
Greg rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine. There is something I want.”  
The man looked smug.  
“Dinner.”  
The smugness was replaced with confusion.  
“You know, once they’ve patched you up. If you go out to dinner with me, I promise I won’t fight you over the check.”  
The man’s eyebrows shot up, causing the cut on his forehead to begin to bleed again. He winced, then looked back up at Greg as his cheeks flushed.  
“I believe that could be arranged.”


End file.
